Harry Potter and the Latent Soul
by Tammurabi
Summary: A hundred and nineteen years have passed since Lord Voldemort was thought to be defeated. Due to an accident of magic and souls, he rises again, threatening Harry, his descendants, and the world once again.
1. A Journey Through the Past

Disclaimer: I do not own or receive payment for any content that may belong to J.K. Rowling or Warner Brothers/Universal.

**A Journey Through the Past**

The man grasped through the dust that lay about the forest clearing and held a handful before his mouth. "Lapidem inveniat," he exhaled. On his breath, the dust spiraled into the clearing, landing in a neat pile a few yards from him. He looked about and walked forward, holding out his hand. A light tremor was felt beneath his feet as a cloud of dirt plumed outward from the small mound. From it, a black stone flew into his hand and was quickly deposited in the pocket of his voluminous robe.

The clearing was familiar to old and weary eyes, though they had only caught a glimpse of it once, long ago, in his youth. There was no time to reminisce now, though, as he walked swiftly into the forest. In the distance, set upon an outcrop, was a castle, hazy now through a shimmering bubble, a shield of light and magic, that wobbled and distorted the dim sunlight like smoking oil. As he drew closer, his cloak whipped about in the turbulent air surrounding the barrier.

He murmured a name into the wind and drew back his hood, kneeling in the dirt. A small creature, a house elf, appeared to him, dressed in a tattered pillowcase and wearing a golden amulet far too large for his frail body. He spoke quietly with the elven being who, at the man's bidding, disappeared with a sharp crack. Up to this point the commotion made by the elf's disapparating would have sent the man fleeing back into the forest; but now he simply turned to the barrier and drew a wand from his cloak sleeves.

With a deliberate and steady hand, he hovered the tip of his wand above the shield. Swiftly, he drew back and slammed the wand forward like a hammer, intoning a spell. The barrier broke with a surprising suddenness and exuded energy outward with a loud bang like a massive popped balloon.

A clarion call sounded from the castle as the man rearranged his cloak about him, shrouding his face beneath the hood. The man started forward, ascending a hill as multitudes of black robed men appeared near him. He did not react beyond a quickening of his breath; for he knew that his cloak would conceal him far beyond the ability of any being or spell to detect. To the men investigating, they saw only a pair of bootprints an inch into the ground near the edge of their shattered ward.

The man continued upward towards the crest of the hill, a gleaming tomb made of marble before him. He murmured to himself, quietly dispelling protections he had placed himself upon the tomb. He paced around, placing an illusion upon the place. Confident his spell work would save him from detection, he surged forward upon the heavy lid of the gleaming sarcophagus, splitting it neatly and casting the pieces aside. His heart skipped as he reached towards the colorfully robed skeleton lying within, grabbing the ornate wand clutched in its hands. He stowed away both wands and turned.

Only a crack heralded his departure, sight unseen, from the grounds of Hogwarts. With him, he carried three objects. A cloak, a stone, a wand. All of them familiar; all of them worth a lifetime of consideration.

He reappeared in an apparently unused office, though the heaviness of the furniture and the height of the richly upholstered desk chair belied status. In front of him was a startled elf and three portraits set upon easels. He removed the cloak, revealing a broad-shouldered old man, stiffly postured, with long waves of gray hair falling on robes made of deep purple velvet.

"Potter," said a dark haired man occupying one of the portraits.

"Professors," said the man, Potter. He glanced at each of them in turn, all of them headmasters of Hogwarts past: Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, and Albus Dumbledore, who looked at him over the glint of his spectacles. Potter turned towards his desk, pulling out several papers, peering at them through round glasses of his own.

"Harry," interjected Dumbledore, "perhaps you might explain why we are here?"

"Ah, well," said Harry, "that is quite a long explanation. I apologize for any ill effect you might have experienced during transit. Hogwarts' wards are quite powerful, and your removal took some effort on my part."

"We are well, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, "but what is the meaning of this?"

Harry sighed. "A miscalculation on all our parts. Or I should say on the part of Professor Dumbledore and I. However, yourself and Professor Snape are involved as well. You see, despite the destruction of his horcruxes and his destruction at the behest of the Elder Wand, Voldemort has, once again, returned."

"Impossible," Snape said.

"I thought so as well," said Harry, "if not for one element Professor Dumbledore and I had not overlooked regarding horcruxes and their destruction."

"They should have all been destroyed, Harry. The effect of basilisk venom is absolute," said Dumbledore.

Harry turned to the elf. "Kreacher, bring me the sword." The elf disappeared.

"Kreacher, Harry?" asked Dumbledore.

"The very same. Not long after the Battle of Hogwarts, I gifted Kreacher with the original locket his master had sought. It was stupidity on my part. Dark magic itself is hard to combat and I am afraid that the residual magic from the horcrux contained in the locket has given Kreacher unnatural long life. He has served me well, however," Harry said, gesturing at the portraits as an example.

Kreacher popped back into the office and placed a silver sword inlaid with jewels upon the desk.

"The Sword of Gryffindor," said Harry, "has many unusual properties. Being goblin-made, it imbibes substances that make it stronger. It also, however, imbibes magic and, as I have recently found, souls." Dumbledore's eyes fluttered closed. "When Professor Dumbledore used the sword to destroy the horcrux contained in the Gaunt's ring, the matter was simple enough: the enchantments upon the ring were absorbed, allowing it to become a receptacle in the same fashion Voldemort had intended for the ring.

"I'm sorry to say, Professor, that the piece of Voldemort's soul in the ring entered the sword."

"So you are saying, Potter," said Snape, "that sword is a horcrux of the Dark Lord's?"

"Was," Harry said, "was a horcrux. Any given horcrux is meant to contain only a piece of the creator's soul. It is unfortunate that three of Voldemort's horcruxes were destroyed using this sword; and, upon the destruction of his body, I believe the piece of soul housed within Voldemort entered the sword as well.

"The effect was not immediate. You see, whilst there were four slivers of Voldemort's soul within the sword, they were powerless and weak. The dark magic that allows horcruxes to exist at all was more powerful. For over a century, Voldemort has been stuck in limbo, contained within this sword. The protective magic that underlies the original enchantments on the weapon are an anathema to his own dark brand, so I imagine the experience was quite hellish.

"It is my belief that some time ago, Voldemort's mortal soul, the piece that departed his body all those years ago, felt remorse at having ever created the horcruxes. The horcruxes merged, restoring his power."

"So his spirit escaped the sword?" asked McGonagall.

"It would have, were it not for the enchantments you had placed upon the sword's casing, Professor. He was bound, unable to break the imperturbable charm that surrounded him. That is, until the sword's natural magic did it for him. The sword appeared to a Gryffindor in need a year ago."

"Probably another Potter," Snape said. "Why don't we already know about this?"

"A Weasley, actually," Harry said with a wan smile. "The reason you are all ignorant of this is because when the sword broke the enchantments that trapped it, Voldemort's soul, for lack of a better word, possessed Hogwarts. He inactivated all portraits within the school and began a series of defensive charms that have denied me access.

"It is by sheer dumb luck that no one was harmed. Though, as you can imagine, and as Professor McGonagall knows, the staff are infinitely more adept at evacuating the students since the War."

"And the faculty?" asked McGonagall.

"Were all present at the Battle of Hogwarts or children of the participants. The magic of my quasi-sacrifice was never broken, since Voldemort's death was incomplete, and still protects those who fought against him and their immediate descendants from his magic. Though..." Harry caught sight of blurred figures roaming across the foe-glass hanging on his door.

"Though, what, Potter?" asked Snape.

"The effect of power on dark wizards has always been understood as being attractive. So, you can imagine, as the most powerful wizard to ever have lived, Voldemort is attracting many skilled and deadly followers.

"We, my contemporaries and I, are old now, Professor. I say this with all modesty intended, but my friends and colleagues have never been able to match my power. I remain the only wizard capable of defeating Voldemort; and his followers remain capable of defeating those protected from him.

"We are being hunted even as I speak. The sword you see before you was retrieved at great risk to myself and others."

"Our retrieval?" asked Dumbledore.

"Relatively without danger. My spies report that just today, Voldemort conducted a ritual to grant himself a corporeal form. He is currently weak from his exertion. It is why I was able to break his charms, why Kreacher was able to retrieve you, and why I am currently in possession of the Deathly Hallows.

"It is my hope that your portraits and your wand, Professor, will be of assistance in finally eradicating Voldemort's soul from the Earth."

Snape sneered at Harry. "Very grand; but with what force do you intend to oppose the Dark Lord?"

"My own power, of course," said Harry, "and the power I wield. You are in an office adjoining the newly relocated Wizengamot chambers. I am the Minister in exile, Professor."

"Politics, Harry?" Asked Dumbledore, a wide smile on his face. "If you'll excuse me, you never seemed particularly adept."

"If it were politics that placed me here, old tutor, I'd more likely be the custodian of Voldemort's privy. I am the only office holder in the Wizengamot left alive."

* * *

_In the next chapter: 90 Years Prior_

_"He entered to a great archway and a central rotunda through it. Arrayed around and stacked well into the dark above him were nameless, nondescript cells. Numerous torches bathed Harry in light; and it was then, through the chill in his bones, he realized that the great shadow that obscured the domed roof was, instead, a thousand dementors floating in solemn procession."_


	2. Ninety Years Prior - Part 1

Disclaimer: I do not own or receive payment for any content that may belong to J.K. Rowling or Warner Brothers/Universal.

**Ninety Years Prior - Part 1**

Harry Potter was not an inexperienced wizard. Having spent a decade as Head Auror and even longer combating dark wizardry, he was no stranger to malevolent magics. He had stood strong in the face of evil and walked willingly into the arms of death. Yet in the presence of dementors, he felt an uncontrollable urge to run away, disapparate, disappear, or transform; anything to be freed from the dread that caused him to cower and his pores to spill their oil onto his skin.

In the shadow of Azkaban, so long so much legend and myth in Harry's mind, he met doom and feared. He crossed his arms and grabbed at clammy, grime laden skin as he marched towards the great fortress. He knew that at its base he would find no entrance, for it was equally important that the prisoners housed within found no exit. He reached the edge of the prison where, despite little care given to maintenance, the roughly hewn stone of its walls met cleanly with the ground. He hovered a hand over the wall, his skin prickling as if in anticipation of a static discharge.

Harry knew, and had long debated with the sorcerers who had enchanted this rock, the nature of the magic that separated Azkaban from the world. Harry was powerless against such strong wards, as would be even greater wizards. For what had rebuilt and protected the place was an immense dark energy, far more sinister than anything conjured by the prisoners. Built upon the souls and blood of executed Death Eaters, upon the animal raped and devoured corpses of the damned, and strengthened by the despair of those within, never again would a witch or wizard escape Azkaban. It was a black body, undetectable and devoid of magic; and, to Harry's trained and experienced mind, a thing of greatest evil. It was, as perhaps only Harry could imagine, a horcrux which had kept alive fear in a world so weary of it.

And the dementors, the linchpins and guardians of Azkaban, demanded entreating by the only creature alive close to them, confused between living and dead: Harry himself.

Harry withdrew a dagger from his robes and slashed his palm, memories of a crystal cave flashing before his eyes, and smeared the wound against stone. His blood boiled on contact, a flash of light, a wafted odor of burnt hair and flesh, and he dissolved through the wall before him as if it had never existed.

He entered to a great archway and a central rotunda through it, replacing his dagger from whence it had come. Arrayed around and stacked well into the dark above him were nameless, nondescript cells. Numerous torches bathed Harry in light; and it was then, through the chill in his bones, he realized that the great shadow that obscured the domed roof was, instead, a thousand dementors floating in solemn procession.

"They are pack animals," Hermione had told him once, still a source of extensive trivia despite her tireless and consuming work in tracking accidental magic. "Sentient, but still incapable of moral judgment."

Her words did much to stem the tide of anger in Harry as he watched the robed spirits, for him an embodiment of a sort of tireless greed that he found abhorrent. Harry's anger gave way to curiosity as observed the dementors engaged in a complex exchange of energy, felt but unseen. He felt as all his warmth was absorbed into the stale atmosphere of the prison, sustaining the beasts. Harry wondered, not for the first time, if it was not the case these dark creatures were evil, but subject to a greater moral truth, to survival, requiring the souls of others in the same way a man requires food. And Harry knew then a great irony, for the energy that sustained the dementors came, in some part, from men and women driven to violence, greed, and thievery by oppressive poverty and starvation. If it were moral for the dementors to steal souls by some principle of nature, Harry would deprive them by likewise reasoning.

But these were questions answered long ago. The experience of his own struggle for survival had embedded in him a great compassion for the suffering of others and he could not bring himself to judge another man for seeking his own sustenance by any means. Despite the sentience of these monsters, they had exceeded their bounds, broken fellowship with society, terrorizing innocents instead of the offering made in Azkaban; and it was for those reasons and those reasons alone the judgment of Harry and the Ministry had come firmly down on the side of humanity. It was why Harry braved setting foot in Azkaban, intent on baring his power to the dementors and, should the need arise, making prisoners of the prison guards.

"We cannot ignore them any longer," Kingsley had said. "The kissings along the coast have come to the attention of the Prime Minister. The dementors have asked for you and you must bring them under our control at any cost —any cost, Harry."

Though the words and the danger he face demanded he consider his family, for he could not bear the thought of leaving Ginny and James and Albus and Lilly or even young Scorpius Malfoy, Harry was determined to protect and defend; an instinct honed over many years to eradicate evil from the world. He thought for a moment upon his plan, assuring himself that Kingsley, having known Harry in some capacity now for over twenty years, did not expect a heretofore unseen diplomatic skill from him.

Harry withdrew his wand and pointed it towards the churning mass of dementors. Wordlessly, a pale beam of light cut through the flittering dust and then parted the beasts, whose formation bulged, bubbled, and spilled downward from the light as water would to a dropped brick, giving Harry the sense of a curious inversion as if he were stuck upside down to a ceiling. Harry lowered his wand as the light dissolved with a whooshing of air and power.

"I've come to entreat," Harry said into the resulting silence.

The magic holding the dementors aloft was suspended and down rained the corpse-like creatures, their robes spilling out along the ground. They could not speak, their dessicated throats far too ancient to produce any sound. Blind and deaf, they understood only the language of the soul, of emotion and of desire. Harry pulled the veil from his mind and thought only of his desire for the dementors to cease their infidelity to the law, to fulfill the purpose assigned to them.

There were no minced words, through the measuring of his intent, the dementors understood Harry perfectly, perhaps more perfectly than he consciously realized. The throngs of robed figures that had encircled him retreated, threatened, having sensed Harry's revulsion and disdain. Harry spun about, confused, unknowingly continuing to spill his disgust to the onlookers.

Through the train of his thoughts, Harry felt clearly an explosion of anger and rebellious disloyalty. Before he was able to raise his wand in defense, he was pulled to the ground by an unseen force. Harry stared up at the now revealed dome above him, grimy from the exhaust of the dark magic emanating from the dementors who, from the edge of Harry's vision, leered unseeingly over him.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I thought I should probably give some indication on what exactly I hope to achieve in writing this story and explain the general structure of it.

To start out with, some background: I am a journalist, editor, and news producer who just recently left the television station I've been with for the past few years. Due to bad personal fortune and an even worse news industry, I've found myself with a lot of time on my hands. I've also worked as a copy-editor and the managing editor of a literary publication and, keeping in line with all good editors, I know very little about my strengths and weaknesses as a fiction author. My writing style is verbose and most of the time tends to concentrate on events and concepts, rather than characters, which I attribute to the fact that the majority of my college education was spent studying Medieval morality plays and liturgy.

I'm hoping to change that and this seems as good an outlet as any to try my hand at fiction, which I haven't written in at least six years. Throughout the course of this story, I hope you'll see an improvement in my characterization in particular, and a pruning out of excess words. Posting may be sporadic, since I'm actively searching for a job, but I hope to post at least twice a month. The time-line of the story will be a bit jumpy; but there will never be "flashbacks" or changes mid-chapter. The reason for this is, though the story is mostly in my head, I'd like to pick scenes which will help me explore some aspects of characterization that I'm unfamiliar with. I'm not going to make things too complicated; most all the time-shifts are spaced decades apart, so all the appropriate exposition will be included with each. This is purely an exercise in enjoyment, for me and (hopefully) for you.

Reviews are very much appreciated.


	3. Ninety Years Prior - Part 2

Disclaimer: I do not own or receive payment for any content that may belong to J.K. Rowling or Warner Brothers/Universal.

**A/N: **I suppose I lied about a lack of flashbacks. But, like I said in the same note, the goal is for improving characterization, not necessarily consistency.

* * *

**Ninety Years Prior - Part 2**

Harry drifted out of mind, tumbling through a mist of thoughts and feelings. An unendurable pain rose in his lungs as if he had been punched in the stomach. As his breath grew shallow and his consciousness quickened, he alighted on a time not long after the Battle of Hogwarts.

He was sitting in the Headmaster's office having just interred the Elder Wand once again. In front of him hung the belated portrait of Severus Snape. They studied each other carefully, master to pupil and eye to eye, until at last Snape spoke.

"I would suppose you are expecting some grand apology for my treatment of you."

"No," Harry said, his throat cracking from disuse.

"I hate you," Snape said.

"I know," said Harry.

"You are still an arrogant and reckless imbecile," said Snape.

"I'm not. Reckless, maybe. I thought you'd be glad," said Harry.

"That I am dead, Potter? Surely even you are not that idiotic," said Snape calmly, despite the belligerence of his words.

"That Voldemort is dea—"

"Do not say his name!" Snape exclaimed. "After all this time, after all you have been through, you still do not have any respect. He was the most powerful dark wizard of the age."

"Dumbledore always said—"

"Dumbledore was a far greater sorcerer than the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord far greater than you. Do not believe for a second, Potter, that whatever childish magic you can conjure up can hold a candle to the Dark Lord's," Snape said.

Harry's goodwill broke, despite his promises to himself to confront Snape with patience. "Well I killed him, didn't I? How could he have been so great if I killed him? How can you sit there and think that he deserves respect when he was a monster? A monster that killed my mum! My mum, who you loved! Do you not have a heart?"

"Do not presume to tell me my heart," Snape whispered harshly, incensed. "How dare you, you impudent little child! I am dead because of the Dark Lord, because of you! I do not care about you or your tiny-minded emotions. I can respect the Dark Lord because he did great things, Potter, things you cannot begin to understand."

Harry snorted, his anger disappearing. "What great things can come from a man who can't love. He was powerless in the end. Didn't you know? He tried to hurt people after I died… I mean, after the… after whatever happened. He couldn't. None of his spells stuck. He tried setting Neville on fire, but he couldn't.

"And you know what? I loved it. I hated him so much it burned. He took my mum and dad away, he took Sirius away. He took Remus and Tonks away and they had a baby. D'you know that, Snape? There's a little orphan and I'm his godfather and he can change his face and hair like Tonks. I _hated_ him. But I gave him a second chance. Get that, even though I knew he was already dead, even though I already told him that: a chance to feel sorry.

"But he couldn't. He couldn't imagine being wrong. Even though he was weak. Even though he couldn't hurt anybody, he couldn't imagine being powerless. He couldn't imagine dying. He was a coward, Snape. He was so afraid. You should have seen his face when he realized.

"I don't think I'm the one who doesn't understand. He was a terrible wizard. The worst. He might be able to force anything to happen with a flick of his wand, but he couldn't make other people want what he wanted. Nobody loved him, Snape, and he loved nobody. He never stood a chance against good witches and wizards.

"He never even stood a chance against you. Because she loved you too, I know it. Maybe it wasn't the same way, but she did. So he killed you. But you're not dead, not like Voldemort. Voldemort's soul is gone, Snape, like he never even existed. You're still there, wherever there is, with my mom and probably fighting my dad.

"Not that you care, but I'm jealous. She loved you and you got to know it while she was alive. I never did."

Snape stared wide-eyed at Harry and seemed to process all that had been said. Finally, he sighed, resigned. "I… appreciate… what you are trying to do, Potter. You can, however, stop. I am never going to change." Harry opened his mouth as if to interrupt, but Snape continued, "You have said your part and you will allow me to say mine.

"I am a portrait, Potter. Though I retain my memories and appearance and will continue to remember new things throughout the centuries, I cannot feel things which I have never felt. And, I can assure you, I have never felt remorse borne outside of regret. That part of me is locked up within my soul which, if what you say is correct, is still whole and in the afterlife. As much as it disgusts me to say it, my alternate is, perhaps, learning to reconcile with your pig of a father and with yourself. I, however, cannot."

"But Dumbledore. He knew things that he didn't know before. He knew what happened when I—er—died," Harry said.

"Do you ever shut up about that man?" Snape asked. "Have I not already said that Dumbledore was a greater wizard than the Dark Lord? Do you not think, if the Dark Lord was capable of immortality, that Dumbledore was—is capable of communing with his own spirit? How do you survive being such a dunce?"

"Dumb luck?" Harry asked with a wry smile. "I suppose it makes sense, though. Even if it weren't true, you'd find a way to make your portrait hate me forever."

Snape snorted at that and quickly looked away. "Believe it or not, Potter, I do not care about you enough to attempt such a feat."

"I didn't come here for this," said Harry.

Snape looked back to where Harry was sitting, but gazing past him. "Then, pray tell, for what did you bother me?"

"I wanted answers," said Harry.

"If you wanted answers, Potter, it is best to ask a question," said Snape.

"I wanted to know: how did you do it? How could you do evil things, cast dark magic, when you were good?" Harry asked.

"Do not fool yourself, Potter," said Snape. "I am not a good or kind man. I followed Dumbledore and protected your ungrateful hide because of my own selfishness. I wanted to, Potter, simply put. When I cast dark magic, I wanted to cause pain and suffering. That is the end of it.

"Though, you must know, sometimes good men do evil things. Dumbledore did. He planned for you to die, Potter. He was sorry for it, to be sure, but he wanted for you to die. Sometimes, the love of good men becomes hatred; because sometimes, Potter, evil may only be destroyed by itself. Sometimes, the remedy to an ill is dark in itself."

Snape's voice echoed through Harry's mind, drawing him back to the present. Back to the stones steeped in magic and the pounding in his head. Back to Azkaban, where he gazed up to the dementors about to feed on his soul.

It was if a trap door had opened in Harry's heart and through it poured all the hidden malice in his soul, all the hurt and pain of his life, and all his desire to do evil. Through his mind flashed the image of his horse-faced Aunt Petunia. He thought of all the time he had spent with them. All the time at the place where that woman was meant to love him as her own son, ignoring him despite her deep devotion to Dudley. He remembered the pages of the _Daily Prophet_, always doubting him. He remembered Dumbledore, calmly describing to Snape the manner of Harry's death. He remembered Sirius, too hot-headed to stay away from his own demise. He remembered Remus and his lack of trust. He remembered Ron's abandonment, his jealousy, and his greed. He remembered his resentment for Hermione, always believing him to be of inferior intelligence.

And Harry understood in that moment that all the hatred in his heart was not for those evil men who did bad things but for the good men and women who had stood by, who had not believed in him and who had hurt him. And though his love for all of them was strong, his forgiveness unending, the pain they had put him through now weighed in equal measure to his joy.

He looked now upon the dementors and despised them for how weak they were. How inhuman they were. He understood with more clarity how people became prejudiced against such creatures. He understood how inferior they were and from his mind he drove away his desire to protect the weak and the infirm.

He clasped a strong hand around the handle of his wand and intoned his spell in a deep hiss. "_Fiendfyre_." From the tip of his wand exploded a plume of flames, spilling out into the great chamber and peeling the hoarfrost from every surface.

The dementors screeched and attempted to flee but from the inferno burst dancing figures of trolls and giant and banshees and imps. From their fiery home, they cut off the dementors, clinging to them and burning away their tattered cloaks. The fire spread, covering the floor entirely. The flagstones bubbled up around Harry like he were in a giant crucible and in the center of it all he still laid. His wand still worked, blowing clear a space around him in waves of energy.

As he pried himself from the floor, his magic continued to work around him without incantations or thoughts. Only his pure intention filled him now and, now standing, he held his wand out. The flames kept at bay by his power circled now like a giant whirlwind, being siphoned back into his wand like light cascading towards a black hole.

With the last of the fire and a rush of wind, Azkaban fell silent. Around Harry lay the charred bodies of the dementors, hundreds of them. They were still alive, protected both by their natural chill and the fact that, as Harry belatedly remembered, they could not be killed by any Earthly power.

Harry's chest heaved, taking deep breaths of now blessedly cool air. He clutched his wand tightly and looked about to see the prisoners roused from their dementia and peering down at him in blatant awe. Harry gave them all a swift nod and raised his wand again to perform a very different charm than the one he had just displayed.

As Prongs leaped about the room rounding up dementors, Harry longed for home.


End file.
